December

December is cold, cold bones, hope and waiting, that impatient movement in my knees, closing my eyes and standing up on big old bricks, arms spread, fantasies like you on your back, balanced up there under a blanket. December is a deep sigh, mottled gray skies, holiday promises, layers of cloth. December is one more inch up, one more year turned gray and expired, warm things and spices, a month long desire, a smoking candle wick, the moment before the lights come back on. December is a worn out favorite sweater, a white and silver time, thin as paper, hands pressed together, a far-off fireplace in the redwoods. December is the tense ache from holding yourself together, rushing or not moving at all, forest green and mahogany red, extra layers, steam, in cups and out of mouths, in the damp bathroom. December is sleeping long hours, kitten kisses on my chin, blank walls, stagnation, cuddle up indoor days, words spilling out everywhere, wishes. December is one frozen snowflake on the windshield, your long legs stepping into white, your steely eyes fluttering.